Flirting with death, living with disaster
by Roo1965
Summary: set as Chris arrives in town in GoTC. Chris POV. OW Gen ficlet.


Summary: Why is Chris like he is when we meet him in GoTC? What's behind that grim exterior and why does he get involved in rescuing Nathan?

Authors notes: written 26th September 2007- expanded & revised for Winnie's birthday 24th Oct 2007. Done originally as a result of yahoo/online discussions about the ep GoTC that Chris**_ doesn't_** have a death wish and how they all got together…

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**Flirting with death, living with disaster by Roo **

How close does Death have to be before you recoil from the stench of its foul breath?

How close to touch its black robe?

How close to stare into the abyss of those bony eye sockets?

Up close and pretty fuckin' personal, Chris reckoned. He should know- he'd walked amongst the charred embers and remains of his house and family. At first he _had_ wanted to die- to be with his beloved wife and son. But there had been so many things to do - the tidying up, the burying and carving the crosses, telling the law and worse- telling Hank, his daughter and grand son were dead. Buck had been a mournful presence at his side and watching his back as always. And Buck would not let him go. The deep grief and despair still lingered, but most of all Chris wanted an answer for what had happened. Could he have stopped it if he'd been at home or would he too have been a charred casualty? So he went looking for answers but found precious few clues or anything of substance. Chris couldn't let it go and he raged obsessively against the dying of the light.

In the end he had taken his anger and grief out on the only person that _knew_and _saw_ what had happened to his perfect little world and he could not bear that knowledge. He'd always had Buck or so it seemed, but now and then a little voice at the back of his head muttered '_if only we'd come home a day earlier_…'

Chris could not bear to have Buck close and drove him away because he could see no other way to carry on living and flirting with disaster. But not before Buck had landed a few well placed punches and yelled a few chosen words and fought back like Chris knew he would. Buck had a big heart and meant well, but he had outstayed his welcome whilst Chris's heart was irrevocably broken. People said time would heal and Chris did not know if he wanted it to and wondered how much time he would need to feel alive, or to actually feel anything again.

After the split with Buck, there was only Chris Larabee, drifter, horse breaker, gun-for-hire, widow- a man seeking revenge and redemption and he'd spit in Death's eyes and laugh at the Devil to get them both or die trying .

He'd battled with the spectre of Death once or twice thinking he wanted it. Truth was he had only flirted like some shy ranch hand at the feet of a pretty woman, like he had a lifetime ago with Sarah. Truth was Death didn't seem to want him and he didn't really want it either- so they were even on that score.

Chris made it look as if he embraced the dark. The black clothes and the lean and mean look helped plenty. Folk didn't realise that in the beginning he'd worn the black as an obvious sign of mourning- then as time passed -he just liked it and the hell with what anyone else thought. It was as far away from any clothing he'd worn in his previous life. And as for the lean and hungry look, that too was just how he was now, what with no homely wife cooking food at home.

'Sides if he really wanted Death _badly_ enough he could have just turned his own gun on himself somewhere- anywhere- remote and never be found until he was bleached bones in the dry air. He could have drawn slower in any of the last few call outs and bled out into the dirt. But then some low life would have used his death to gain a name above his. And the name Larabee and his reputation were all he had left to call his own and he wasn't going to throw it away so easily.

He had once made honest money shooting for skill and speed and then it turned ugly, as life often does and sometimes it really was a matter of self defence and being in the wrong place at the right time. Didn't mean Chris went picking fights- he was careful. He shot to kill so they wouldn't come after him. 'Course that sometimes meant enraged family and or friends _did_ come running for his blood. It was a risk. Maybe he should have just wounded instead? Back then it hadn't been an option- he just drew fast. Now, a year or two later, he wondered if there was another way. And maybe he was just getting too old for this running around shooting people….

So while he exuded a dangerous deathly aura, it kept him safe- mostly and he didn't correct people from that assumption. He preferred it when they avoided him, then he didn't have to respond and answer meaningless small talk. He would much rather observe people and keep to himself.

He lived and continued to grieve alone. Sometimes the ache of it hurt like a physical wound- like being shot. He did not let go of himself entirely, although there had been moments- a day or two here and there. He kept smart and mostly sober- after all he had no-one watching his back any more. And sometimes acting drunk or plain crazy got you more information than being quiet in the dark corner of the saloon or tumbling with some saloon piece. He'd used them all when he had to, but he preferred not to have to- he had been a good man once and dearly loved. Did he not have the right to live a bit peaceful now some of the hot grief and hard stone in his belly had eased?

He kept his gun and rig clean, had plenty of spares and he cared for his horse and tack. Pony was good horseflesh and it was not his fault his family was dead and his house burned to the ground.

He might not be socially polite but he could be civil enough when he had to be, Chris mused to himself as he rode into the latest little town. A livery, healer, saloon, jail…newspaper and boarding house- it seemed like a lot for the slightly run down look of the place. Pony needed a rest and so did he, but just for a day or so, and then he'd move on again. He wondered if today or tomorrow would bring something a little more exciting to get the blood pumping, making his body sing in battle.

The bad element had arrived; the town just didn't know it yet.

Chris had changed in ways Sarah would have hated, but this was the man that he had become. There was no going back to what he was before. Maybe this town could provide a welcome distraction of several kinds. First though, he had to find out who was in town that he needed to be aware of.

Saloon, a drink- some information and a decent night's sleep in a bed. It was a plan.

0o0

Last night had been a little rowdy in this new town- but the thing that gave Chris Larabee most cause for concern this morning was the realisation that Buck was here. He'd changed since they'd squared off against each other. He wondered what to do about it all the same. Walk away or say hello? He went to the bar and bought a bottle of Red Eye, planning on thinking on it some when a bullet shattered the glass. Calmly he poured his drink, drank it and then went to see what was going on in the street outside.

As the bullets flew and the pretty blonde newspaper-woman faced off in front of the rowdy posse, he watched and waited, tense, ready if needed. She was shaken but not shot- he could live with that if she could. No-one answered her pleas for help.

Now what? A necktie party? A righteous anger rose. No-one moved apart from the long haired, aproned man sweeping the store front opposite. The man went back inside, to re-appear apron-less, but with his hat on loading a rifle which he then balanced on his shoulder. Chris liked these odds and something happened as the stranger looked over at Chris. Chris asked a question with a slight tilt of his head and flick of his eyes. The barest of a return nod had them both calmly walking down the centre of the street towards the cemetery. Chris tucked his duster coat behind his holster and glanced over at his new companion. Done this before he thought- not panicking and comfortable with the big rifle and very alert to his surroundings.

Bullets spent, lives saved and bad guys dead or wounded and duty done, they helped the black healer to his feet and dusted him off. Only one thing for it now ..."Saloon…" and with a slight grin the three strangers strode together back up the street.

Yes, this town had possibilities. It wasn't like he had anything better to do for the rest of the day, apart from confronting Buck. Chris Larabee was willing to wait and see what happened next…if only the newspaper woman would stop asking stupid questions.

The End.


End file.
